The Narcissus Affair
by Pontmercesque
Summary: Enjolras is hiding a terrible secret. When Courfeyrac unwittingly discovers it, he is forced to question his own ideas on loyalty and virtue, and decide whether or not to keep silent - for the sake of the Republic.
1. Prologue, part I

_The Narcissus Affair._

Mme de Charmillette had a marble Narcissus in her drawing room. It might have been an interesting piece: subdued, introspective, one might say, with no pool of petrified water, no lilies or rushes, nothing at all to suggest the identity of the figure except for a dreamy, downcast gaze, fixed on some imaginary point. Mme de Charmillette thought very little of it, seeing it every day. It had come to her from the estate of a widowed aunt, deceased February prior.

In July, when her brother came to visit, he took an obvious interest in the piece. Mme de Charmillette was acutely embarrassed by his lack of subtlety. Whenever he was in the salon he would hover around it, circle it, examine it from every angle, now smiling a little, now seeming perturbed. Mme de Charmillette wanted to snap at him, tell him to sit down and behave like a regular adult, but she excused her brother's behaviour by reminding herself that he had always been somewhat restless – something, she believed, to do with the red hair.

The truth was, her brother was rather less of an embarrassment when he was scrutinising the furnishings than when he participated actively in the conversation. Perhaps he gave the impression that he was simply unaware of the rules of polite society, but Mme de Charmillette knew better. He had, after all, been given the same upbringing as herself, and both were perfectly aware that he could slick on a veneer of respectability if he so chose. But the wretch clearly enjoyed shocking her guests, flouting his Parisian notions and generally making a spectacle of himself. On the first night, he had actually corrected the local curate, to whom she had introduced him, saying that he was 'just Courfeyrac'. Just Courfeyrac! If grandfather had been alive to hear that…!

On the sixth day, he left. Apparently he was still at the university and, figuring in travel time, his schedule just would not allow him to stay any longer. He promised to return soon, sooner than last time. It was an absolute crime that she had lived in this house nearly two years without her brother coming to call. Yes, it was awful, but that's what happens when you send your boys to the capital. Her brother took her face in both hands and kissed her on the brow. Soon, he promised, laughing.


	2. Interlude: Observations

Enjolras was frightening. Courfeyrac would never admit this, of course; and, truth be told, he at least was lucky to count among the man's friends. But there was something about that fellow that made him nervous: something impenetrable and obscure. He called Enjolras his friend, but he didn't know why. He didn't know why someone like Enjolras should ever exist at all.

He didn't think much of it, most of the time. It only came up during those strange lulls in which they found themselves alone, compelled to carry on a conversation. They scarcely went beyond the weather, lectures, books they both had read. Sometimes one would touch upon that word _home_, when the atmosphere was suitable for melancholy. It always made Courfeyrac melancholy, anyway; so he liked to imagine that Enjolras felt it, too.

It would be wrong to say that Courfeyrac studied Enjolras. He was generally preoccupied with other matters. But it was only natural that he would notice a change, a subtle shift from the ordinary, like finding yourself in a room where you can't hear the noise from the street – like listening to another person breathing as you fall asleep at night. When something – an inappropriate flicker of amusement, even a hint of malice – came into his eyes, Courfeyrac noticed. It intrigued him. It didn't happen often, though.

• • •

Courfeyrac wonders, from time to time, if Marius knows more than he lets on. They never make an effort to conceal things from him, so perhaps he quietly absorbs it all, the gossip and the philosophy that he never seems to grasp a word of. When he thinks like this, he becomes nervous despite himself. He's not sure, he admits, who Marius _is_. Marius is a son of the Empire. Marius is young and handsome. Marius is poor. Marius is bright – he once had his doubts, but he has proofed his friend's law school compositions and watched the concentration clouding his face when he reads in English – yes, Marius is clever, but rather useless. Marius is timid, so much so that one nearly feels embarrassed by association. Marius is obstinate. Marius is charming.

So, Courfeyrac tells himself by way of reassurance that perhaps he doesn't know Marius, but then, does he know anyone, really? Oh, and he has feelings for that young man, that a woman might describe as maternal. He wants to trust Marius, but he prefers that Marius trust him. It's exciting, thinking that he might venture where no one else has dared; to become the intimate friend and confidant of a reclusive Marius, or an Enjolras, or anyone else he has disarmed and conquered. So, why be afraid? If he refused to have faith in people, what would he ever achieve?

* * *

• It's begun... beware of sudden changes in tense and POV all throughout this fic. I assume though that it won't be any trouble as long as I'm consistent within each passage.


	3. Prologue, part II

He's back within the week. Soon, he had promised; but this is quite unexpected. He ought to know it's somewhat frowned upon, showing up unannounced like this, imposing on M. de Charmillette and I when everyone knows we're losing money with the company. But what kind of woman would I be if I turned my own brother out of my house?

August suits him. He looks so handsome on the garden bench, sprawled as he is because he's really far too big for it. Once I was told I ought to be proud, having such a clever, attractive brother. Now, when I say that we've been entertaining my brother, they raise their eyebrows and praise my Christian charity. No matter what distance we keep him at, he has a reputation here.

'So, Julie,' he begins, swirling the lemonade in his glass. He has a way of speaking so that one is never sure how to answer. He must find it exceedingly useful. 'Julie,' he says again. 'I must confess, I've come for a reason.'

'To see me, my dear?'

'Julie, you know that you are the only woman I've ever loved.'

'Don't go on. You know, I don't understand you at all. Well? And?'

'Very well. You have in your house a piece of art–'

'Narcissus?'

He looks genuinely surprised. 'Yes, that's the one. Julie, how did you guess? Well, no matter. I was just wondering where you acquired it.'

'Oh. It came from our aunt Victoire's estate.'

'Yes, of course. And do you know where she got it?'

'No. It was just something she had. I think it must have been a recent purchase.'

'Shame.' He purses his lips. He always looks like that when he's thinking, and especially when he's thinking of something that doesn't please him. 'Fair enough,' he says, when he's finished with his thought. 'I don't know what I'm doing here, anyway. It's not very rational. It's just that, when I saw it, it reminded me of something–someone. And every time I saw it, it bothered me more.'

'Oh! I think I know who you mean!'

He's puzzled again. I do enjoy getting the upper hand. 'I don't think you do,' he says.

'But Claire pointed it out to me, just the other day, when I told her what an interest you'd taken in it. I told her that, and she told me who she thought it looked like. Now I see it, too. It's really quite funny. It looks exactly like that awful Desmarais boy.'

'Who?'

'I guess you just missed him the last time you were here, you know, it was just after everybody thought he'd got poor Marie Charpentier with child, but I've heard that sometimes we remember names and faces from childhood, all of a sudden, people who we haven't thought of in years. By the way, I don't know if you ever heard, but no one really believes he did it anymore, although he certainly would have been capable of it. One look at that baby would tell you it wasn't his. Now people think it was one of those gypsies that come to beg in Avignon, although no one really wants to say as much…'

'Julie, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.'

'Don't be cross! I suppose you might not remember, it's been so long. I mean Philippe Desmarais, you know, Desmarais the butcher's son. The one who's always getting into trouble–or he was, it's been ages since anyone's heard from him, not that we mind–now I know you've met him at least once, he must be around your age.'

Our conversation is cut off by tiny footsteps on the lawn. Enter Claire. I didn't tell him she was coming, so it's nice to see how he reacts, a moment of unrehearsed emotion. 'We were just talking about that sculpture in the drawing room,' I tell her when she's seated. 'I was telling him what you said. About the Desmarais boy.'

'Oh, that's right,' Claire says. 'It's frightening, isn't it? How can you sit and conduct a salon while _he's_ looking at you?'

'He's not looking at you, is he? He's looking at himself. But I was trying to tell Julie that I'd meant someone else.'

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'Well, he reminds me of someone too, a friend of mine from the university.'

'That's not Philippe Desmarais, then,' Claire says laughingly. I don't find it that funny, though.

'No. You may have heard of him, though. He grew up around here, actually. His country home was just outside of Estezargues. He remembers when those actors with the ostrich passed through the town. He's called Enjolras.'

'It doesn't sound familiar,' says Claire.

'No, not to me,' I add. He isn't too put out, though.

'Well, I didn't know him before I met him in Paris, either. It's nice to have him around, though, to talk about home. Isn't it funny, we spend all these years right next to one another without knowing it, and don't meet until we're miles away?'

'Isn't it,' says Claire. 'Speaking of Paris, how much does it cost to have a new pair of slippers made in the city?'

* * *

• As a disclaimer of sorts, any small French villages used in this fic I know only through google, chosen for their size and geographical location, but I can't vouch that my portrayal is at all accurate otherwise. I hope this will not cause problems.


	4. I: Enjolras démasqué

Half-past: he feels like a fool sitting alone in the café – it hasn't ever happened to him before, if you can believe it. It makes him nervous, very nervous, picking at the wax until there's nothing but a reddish stain left on the paper, wax she might have coloured with her own hands from those silly bees she keeps on the farm, all that care and he's just picked it to pieces, but it's her own fault, really, for writing that letter. Why did she have to do it? Keep quiet. You're jumping to conclusions and it will only get people upset. Claire! You're too candid for your own good…

Someone is coming – Bahorel? He wants to pester him about returning that book. No, Bahorel is going to the theatre tonight, Courfeyrac was going to trail along but he went last week and he thought the lead actress was a tramp and the hero was a eunuch. No, and it's not the mistress, and it's not Joly who owes him six francs – it's the one he wants to see least of all. He looks impeccable – and dry; it was raining when Courfeyrac came in. And if his face is a little red from the wind, it only serves to make him prettier. Courfeyrac grimaces, thinks of the pageant actress with her layers upon layers of rouge. Bahorel will go to see her tonight, so he can't return the book that Courfeyrac wants desperately right now to hide his face behind to not look into those unblinking porcelain doll eyes…

'You look pale. Did you skip meals again?' Courfeyrac smiles despite himself. You wouldn't expect Enjolras to ask something like that, wouldn't expect him to care. He probably doesn't, but he still asks, to be polite, because Courfeyrac is his friend.

'I'm all right. Yes. I got a letter from my sister Claire.'

'Not bad news, I hope?'

'No, no. Well, she's fine. Blissfully happy out there with her husband and her farm. She hasn't got any children yet but she has a dog, and bees. It makes me feel old; I'm the oldest in my family and the only one not married.'

'I'd think that should make you feel young. Surely you're not upset over it?'

'No, not really. I can reflect upon mortality any time, it doesn't bother me much. But my sister seems troubled, here in her letter. Just local gossip, you know, but I hate it when she's unhappy.'

'Naturally.'

'I doubt it's anything serious of course. She was recounting a few stories, things that happened some time ago, makes me wonder why she brought it up now. This fellow – well, you might know him – probably do – he's from Estezargue. My sister lives there.'

'Does she? You never told me.'

'Didn't I? Well, it hasn't been that long, and she's still close enough, I forget sometimes that she ever left home. – Desmarais. Do you know the name? I can't imagine what the man could have done but the way she paints it, every third woman in Provence has something against him.'

Enjolras stares at him. It's that look he gets – disdainful – when he thinks you're being excessively trivial. 'It doesn't sound familiar,' he says.

'Really? I just thought for such a notorious fellow – that is, according to Claire – well, and it being such a small village –'

'Well, perhaps I've heard the name before, but I couldn't tell you much more than that.'

'He's about our age, too.'

'I had no idea. Oh, but he must be the son of the – the tanner, is it?'

'Butcher. Says Claire.'

'Ah, that's right. I was too young to have much sense of those things, of course. And my family would not, shall I say, have been likely to associate with his…'

'Oh, but of course. The illustrious Enjolras family, nearly as prestigious as the de Courfeyracs, but for the sadly depleted state of their surname. It's funny, actually, because there's something else Claire mentioned to me.' Enjolras raises his eyebrows, politely inquisitive. 'You see, I told her about you last time I went home – I was telling her what a good friend you've been to me, how comforting. Only she became quite confused. It seems no one in Estezargue has ever heard of the Enjolras family.'

'Give me that letter.'

'I beg your pardon, my private affairs –' He doesn't get to finish; Enjolras has already snatched it from his hands. He uncreases the paper and strides quickly to the other side of the room, scanning the words. At length he looks up, eyes narrowed. 'It doesn't say anything about Desmarais here. You lied.'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'To see how you would respond, of course.'

Enjolras throws the letter to the floor. He seems frustrated that the pages take their time fluttering about, instead of making a satisfactory crash. He looks near tears. 'Courfeyrac. Why would you?'

'Don't bother. My God, you look so sad. You look like a little lost child. I almost feel sorry.'

'You're horrible! Leave. And to think, I would have called you my brother! You must be heartless.'

Courfeyrac forces an ironical smile he doesn't really feel. 'You are a top quality actor, you are, Philippe Desmarais. Go on, get a hold of yourself.'

The other man regards him for a moment – manages to compose himself once more, as much as ever, only his gaze is uneven, searching. He paces back to the centre of the room. At last he quirks a pathetic smile and raises his hands, a gesture of defeat.


	5. II: Philippe introduced

It was all too strange, getting to know this new Enjolras that had suddenly appeared. Strangest of all was how careless he seemed, as if things had always been that way, and that was that; and, well, indeed, they always had been, for him. He made no pretension to being anything other than what he was – not to Courfeyrac, anyway – and if his friend was occasionally a little shocked, he made no sign of noticing. Take the night he strolled into the café and cast a pamphlet in the direction of Courfeyrac's nose, asking, 'Have you seen this?'

'I have, just this morning.'

'Good.'

'Are you going to talk about it tonight?'

'No, you are, I'm far too drunk.'

And that was the way Philippe was.

Enjolras was evasive. He was perfectly civil in public but rarely saw anyone privately, and it was only after half a year of acquaintance that he had taken to promenading with Courfeyrac in the Luxembourg. Desmarais was not so shy. Not two weeks had passed and Courfeyrac found himself reclining on the other man's floor with a bottle of whisky in his hand, wondering idly where the boy had got the money. The Enjolras family could have provided it; Desmarais the butcher could not.

'How did you end up in Paris?' he asked, examining the bottle. Desmarais looked at him flatly.

'How does anyone end up in Paris?' He shrugged. 'I'd had it with the provinces.'

'You got around a bit, didn't you?'

'Oh, sure. I was with a group of actors.'

'I might have known!'

'I liked it, mostly – we were jaunting about Savoy for a while, good fun, but I didn't have any papers.' He paused for a swig of whisky. 'I thought about carrying on when I came to Paris, but I think that without the road it would have lost its charm. The work itself was never that important. Of course Josette – Julie – something like that, this tramp I was seeing – she said it made me no better than a tart, but I – my dear, are you all right?'

'Julie is my sister's name,' Courfeyrac said tersely. Desmarais clapped a hand over his mouth.

'Sorry – oh, you must've had a fright – but no, this wouldn't be your Julie, this woman was an absolute horror, and in any case, I left her in Annecy. But I thought your sister was called Claire?'

'I have two.'

'Of course.' Desmarais said nothing for a moment, then burst into laughter. 'Oh, no! It's too much.'

'I beg your pardon,' said Courfeyrac, miffed.

'No, tell me, Courfeyrac, what is your Christian name? Jean, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Jean what? Come on, I'll tell you mine. My proper name is Louis-Philippe. I'm serious. Nothing could be worse than that.'

Courfeyrac began to laugh too, at that. Then, with an apologetic smile, he produced a battered calling card from his pocket and handed it over. Desmarais grinned wildly when he read it.

'Really? Oh, this is incredible. _Jean-André Saint-Preux de Courfeyrac_. But that's brilliant.'

'My mother was a very literary woman,' Courfeyrac said defensively.

'I see.' Desmarais tried to suppress his mirth, with some small success. 'I'm sorry. I don't mean to laugh at you, it isn't your fault. And even if it was, well, who am I to talk? I would tell you my Enjolras's full name only I can't remember most of it. Horace-Achille-Père Duchêne– some shit like that. I had a good laugh coming up with it.'

'By yourself?'

Desmarais looked puzzled. 'By myself, what?'

'Did you come up with it by yourself?'

'I – of course.'

'Then it couldn't have been a very good laugh.'

Desmarais started to smile again. 'Oh, you.' He moved closer, placing his head against the crook of Courfeyrac's shoulder. 'Stop making me sentimental. Don't you know that's why you're here now?'

Courfeyrac put his arms around his friend's shoulders, allowing him to rest his full weight against his chest. 'Good Lord, you're like a little child. Or a massive one, rather. There, there, sleep it off, I won't hold it against you. Shh, I won't leave. Don't worry,' he said, without stopping to think, 'I won't tell. I won't tell.'

* * *

• Yes, Julie, Claire and Saint-Preux are the primary characters in Rousseau's _Julie, ou la Nouvelle Héloïse_. Yes, I'm aware how incredibly silly and not cool that reference was. Basically you can take it as a subtle message that you should all go out and read this heartbreakingly beautiful book.


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